Un Éléphant Qui Se Balançait
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: John and Lestrade find something besides evidence at a crime scene.  One-shot.


_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

_Written for a one-word prompt ("French") from Feej; special thanks to her and to LeDragonQuiMangeDuPoisson for having read this over for me._

_I've been angsting these poor characters to death lately, so I may as well give them a bit of a break._

* * *

><p>John sighed and shifted from one foot to the other, squinting past the lights of the patrol car in an attempt to see what Sherlock was doing to the stains on the street. The bodies had all been removed by now (much to Sherlock's disappointment; John could see the thin lines of disapproval crease his forehead as he'd watched the retrieval team), but there was apparently plenty of evidence strewn about "if you'd only <em>observe<em>, John."

He hadn't been particularly interested in 'observing, John,' especially as he could barely even keep up with Sherlock's steady stream of deductions when they were laid out clearly (or what passed for clearly with Sherlock) for him. So, instead, he'd gone over to see if he could give Lestrade a hand with any more mundane jobs like keeping an eye on the barriers. It turned out that Lestrade had assigned that job to Donovan, keeping her well out of Sherlock's way so that they didn't cause a scene, and John had ended up standing rather aimlessly off to one side.

Ordinarily, he might have tried to lend a hand at the scene itself, but today they were working on the border of the City of London, and as such, Scotland Yard was collaborating with a team from the City of London Police's Public Protection Unit. Lestrade had advised caution, because although his own service might tolerate his unorthodox consultants, others might not – and the head of this particular unit was already well-known for his irritability. John could see the other Detective Inspector now, frowning as he debated the particulars of the crime with two of his own officers.

He noticed something else, as well, a flash of pink in a rather dingy alleyway at the edge of the police tape. Curious, he wandered over (keeping cautiously close to the barriers), only to discover that it wasn't some new piece of evidence. Quite different, in fact – it was a little girl.

She looked to be about five years old, with soft brown hair and a smudged pink dress where she had been crouched in the alley. There were tears on her face and she was clutching a little purse, but the way her hands crushed it told John that there was nothing inside. Just for the pleasure of carrying it, then. He smiled, trying to reassure her in the hopes that she might be able to stop crying.

"Hello," he said.

She stared mutely back at him, fresh tears tracking down her cheeks.

"I'm John," he offered.

Still staring.

"What's your name?"

Nothing. Her look was one of blank incomprehension.

He tried pointing at himself. "John," he repeated, slowly, then pointed at her.

"Na – Nathalie Giraud," she replied shakily. Perfectly accented; no wonder she hadn't responded to his first question.

Footsteps behind him, and John looked up to see Lestrade approaching from his left. He gestured to the little girl.

"Look who was hiding in the back alley," he said by way of explanation. "I don't think she speaks English."

Lestrade smiled at her, and she rubbed the back of one hand across her face to wipe away the wetness. John had noticed before that children seemed to like the Detective Inspector; he could usually win a smile from even the most anxious young visitors to the station. Perhaps his magic would work even without the ability to speak to her.

"Comment t'appelles-tu?" Lestrade ventured. His French was also perfectly accented.

_Of course_, John thought. 'Lestrade' wasn't an English name, after all.

"Nathalie Giraud," she replied, more bravely than she had to John.

"Bien, Nathalie," grinned the older man. "Qu'est-ce que tu fais ici? Où sont tes parents?"

Thank God for Lestrade. The inspector had a tissue out and was gently dabbing at her cheeks even as she explained, through hiccups, "J'ai perdu mon papa… il était là…" Her words dissolved into a sob.

"Shh," he reassured her. "On va le retrouver, ton père. Viens avec moi."

He offered her a hand, which she took, but then shook his head and picked her up entirely, adjusting his grip so that she sat comfortably and could wrap one arm around the back of his neck.

"John," said Lestrade, and the doctor was almost startled to hear his name, "Nathalie's lost her dad. Is there a Mr. Giraud here anywhere? Could you ask around?"

"Giraud," John nodded. "Right."

He wandered off in the direction of the nearest barrier, stopping every few metres to check with the people milling at the edges – was there a Mr. Giraud in the area? Did any of them know him, know where he might have gone?

He had made almost a complete circuit of the barriers by the time he came upon Sergeant Donovan and explained his predicament.

She looked at him with pity.

"What?" he asked. "I'm only trying to help. There's a little girl – "

"Well, you're clearly no Freak," she answered. "Giraud's the DI."

"Pardon?"

"The other DI. You know, boss of the whole unit? Lestrade without the worry lines? Over there." She gestured at the brown-haired man still frowning at his associates.

"Ah," said John, hesitantly. Lestrade hadn't even wanted him following Sherlock around. He wasn't sure what his opinion would be of John's interrupting the City of London DI at work.

But on the other hand, there was a lost child, crying, and he could fix it.

"Erm," he said, standing near the DI's gesticulating hands. "Excuse me."

The man's cool gaze snapped to him.

"I've – I mean, we've – found your daughter…"

Giraud's whole face slipped from annoyance to alarm. "What? She was supposed to be in the car, where is she, how did you…" His English was tinged with the south of France, but at least he spoke it fluently – more so than John at the moment.

As they approached Lestrade, kneeling at the back of a patrol car, John could swear he heard –

"_Il était un éléphant qui se balan__çait…_"

– Lestrade, _singing_ –

"_Sur une toile, toile, toile, toile d'araignée…_"

– and Natalie, giggling and clapping her hands –

"_C'était un jeu tellement, tellement amusant…_"

– playing a clapping game _with Lestrade_…

John couldn't keep the grin from his face as they approached and Giraud flew to his daughter, swooping her up from her perch in the back seat of the car and hugging her close to him, murmuring things to her, "Qu'est-ce que tu faisais, où étais-tu, j'ai dit, reste dans la voiture…"

She buried her face in his shoulder and told him "Il est gentil…"

Giraud remembered John and Lestrade and looked up again, still holding his daughter tightly.

"Thank you," he said.

Lestrade dropped his gaze, not the sort of man to seek gratitude, and John shuffled awkwardly.

"How come she doesn't speak English?" he asked, just for something to say.

It was the wrong thing. The other inspector's face hardened. His eyes were tired, though, as he said, "She is only visiting. She lives with her mother. In Nice."

_Ah._ Damn. John ought not to have asked.

Lestrade, though, nodded wearily and looked back up at Giraud. "Mine lives with her mother, too," he admitted quietly. "Not quite so far away, but she might as well be."

A moment's silence as both men contemplated one another.

Finally, Giraud nodded. "Work to do," he said, gesturing to the crime scene with his free hand. Without either of the DIs supervising, the area had become a little chaotic; Lestrade could see Anderson arguing, red-faced, with one of the City of London officers, and the constables who were supposed to be watching the crowd were, in fact, enthusiastically watching their coffee cups instead.

"Right," agreed Lestrade. "Tell you what, I'll… why don't you and Nathalie go and keep an eye on the barriers and I'll sort all this out?"

"But there is far too much work here for one man."

"John can help," Lestrade decided, catching hold of John's sleeve. "Army trained. If he can't handle my men, no one can."

"Of course," John said firmly, standing straight and doing his best to look as military as possible. "Unless you count Sherlock as one of 'your men,'" he added under his breath, and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Bien," said the other Detective Inspector, "good. Thank you."

This time, Lestrade nodded his understanding. He wasn't going to take a moment more of this man's time with his daughter than was absolutely necessary.

"Dis _au revoir_, Nathalie," her father told her.

"Au revoir!" she shouted, gleefully. Then, to Lestrade, "Ba da _boum_!" and fell against her father's shoulder, giggling, as they left.

"It was a game," Lestrade explained quickly to John.

"Oh, really?" grinned John, remembering the inspector's singing and the clapping game he'd played with the little girl. "You might have to teach me that one."

"Not on your _life_."

They laughed and turned back to the crime scene, ready to corral Anderson and Sherlock.

"You know what?" John observed as they headed over. "We're going to have to stop calling those two childish. _Actual_ children are much easier to deal with at a crime scene."

"Do you suppose Inspector Giraud would be willing to trade us Nathalie for Sherlock?"

"Well… I'd say it's definitely worth a try."


End file.
